


Aller aux Barricades!

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AND BARRICADES, Gen, M/M, SNOW SNOW SNOW IT IS SNOWING SO I MUST WRITE ABOUT SNOW, i believe this is book!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan loves the snow -- in the sense that he likes to curl up inside with a book and a lovely cup of cocoa. Naturally Courfeyrac won't stand for that. Besides -- the barricades are rising!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aller aux Barricades!

Jehan had only just settled down in his favourite chair, precariously balancing a book of poetry on one knee as he tentatively sipped his steaming cocoa, when Courfeyrac burst through his door. It was a miracle that the poor man didn’t spill the entire scalding drink down his front, but his face was white and terrified all the same. 

“Come outside!” Courfeyrac shouted, grinning from ear to ear. 

Jehan was frozen. Was this the revolution? Had it begun? It was cold outside — should he wear an extra layer? 

Courfeyrac crossed the room in two steps and peeled his mug out of his hands. “Come on! Enjolras has already begun his barricade. We’ll miss the start!”

Jehan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He leapt up, smoothly passing the book from his lap to the nearest table as he scrambled around his small apartment finding as many thick, warm clothes as he could. Courfeyrac helped as much as Courfeyrac could, handing him mismatched socks and his favourite scarf. At some point he jammed a hat down on Jehan’s head and propelled him out the door with his shoes still untied. 

Courfeyrac grabbed Jehan’s hand and hauled him off down the street. The young, petit poet flailed and stumbled — only keeping upright by the force of Courfeyrac dragging him relentlessly along. After two minutes of rib-rending sprinting, they got to the little park near the café. 

Everyone on the wide green was at war. 

On one side, Enjolras and Grantaire viciously pelted Joly and Bossuet with snowballs, as Combeferre slowly built up a snow-barricade around them. On the other side, Bahorel and Feuilly seemed to have had the same idea — but Bahorel had given up on their defences so that he could shove snow down Feuilly’s shirt. 

Jehan tried to stop at the edge of the green-that-wasn’t-really-green-anymore, digging his heels into the ground. Courfeyrac’s momentum jerked him foreward, but it was enough to get Courfeyrac to stop and turn around. 

“Jehan?” He asked breathlessly, his face flushed. 

“A snowball fight?” Jehan asked incredulously. 

He’d been expecting guns and flags and fighting and he’d gotten — well, Feuilly had stripped off his wet scarf and attached it to the tree that formed a corner of their barricade; it was their banner. Within minutes Enjolras’s red scarf had risen over his, Grantaire’s, Combeferre’s ice fortress. 

Joly waved at Courfeyrac and Jehan. “Help! Please, come help!”

“They’re on our team,” Combeferre shouted as he quickly formed the falling snow into decently sized lumps. “You’ll have six to our three!”

“Five and a half,” Bossuet answered, limping behind the little wall Bahorel had built them. 

“You’ll have to split up,” Enjolras told them, lobbing a larger chunk of snow at the ‘enemy’ barricade. Grantaire snorted. 

Five minutes later, Jehan and Courfeyrac were both cheerfully installed in their very own barricade — they’d formed a triangle with the other two — and launching frozen projectiles mercilessly in either direction. They were doomed, they knew, but happily doomed, and quite content with their fate.

Enjolras led the first attack, and Grantaire followed on his heels. The little ice wall manned by Bahorel, Feuilly, Joly, and Bossuet fell in a matter of minutes. How that fair-haired warrior managed to get Bahorel to surrender was an eternal mystery — but he did, and his red scarf fluttered victoriously in the tree above Feuilly’s. 

Jehan and Courfeyrac didn’t stand a chance. 

In fact, they surrendered before Enjolras and Bahorel, who had spontaneously switched sides in the name of freedom, could even raise a handful of snow in their direction. 

Jehan, seated in the middle of what was slowly becoming an igloo, directed Courfeyrac in the making of ice blocks. 

Combeferre and Feuilly joined them — casually arguing about the best dimensions and proper placement of snow. (Combeferre won because, out of the three snow-barricades, his was the only one that had actually survived.) Joly and Bossuet flopped down and made snow angels because Bossuet had been banned from the construction site until the ice-building was complete. 

Everyone was grinning from ear to ear — even Enjolras. 

He had stopped in the middle of the green to catch his breath while his friends rallied and played around him. It wasn’t the revolution he wanted — the people of Paris were turning out in droves to join in the merriment, and have a stroll in the fresh, white powder — but it wasn’t a disappointment. 

He scooped up a handful of snow and slowly packed it into a ball.

At the end of the day, war or no war — he dearly loved all of his friends, and he cherished moments like this. These were important — these were the fond memories that would help them build a new, better, brighter world, and nothing would stand in their way. 

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Grantaire!” He called out — the cynic was standing next to the half-built igloo, teasing Jehan for wanting to create something that would only melt in a matter of days. 

Grantaire looked up quickly.

Enjolras’s snowball hit him square in the face.


End file.
